


Invitation not necessary

by CountlessStars



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Coulson's first name is Coulson okay?, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountlessStars/pseuds/CountlessStars
Summary: Clint Barton keeps finding ways to get into Coulson's apartment. The thing is, Coulson doesn't mind it nearly as much as he probably should.





	Invitation not necessary

**Author's Note:**

> !Rant alert! Heyyy. I haven't finished and posted a fic in YEARS. And now that I've been slowly trying to get back on track with another fic, this thing appears in my head, comletely witten and demands to be typed out. I basically had no choice. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> P.S.: It's past 4 am and I've written this whole thing on my phone, please excuse any formatting issues.

When Phil steps into the kitchen at 5:25 to make his morning coffee, there is an assassin sitting on his granite countertop.

He doesn't even freeze, doesn't hesitate in his movements, because he's good like that. Seeming unperturbed by what he sees is very much the majority of his work; he mastered the poker face a long time ago. So he pretends he's alone and goes about his morning routine. He's just taking a cup from the cupboard when there is movement in his peripheral vision.

"You didn't even fucking flinch!" Clint Barton exclaims, his voice almost comically agitated.

Phil pours himself a cup of steaming coffee and doesn't say anything.

"How did you know I wasn't someone sent to kill you? You could have been dead right now!" Barton continues, unfazed by Phil's silence.

At that, Coulson actually snorts, putting just the right amount of contempt into the sound to appear very unamused. He takes a sip of coffee and says, without turning towards his visitor, "I don't even know how you manage to successfully complete any missions if your idea of the best spot for murder is the kitchen counter."

Barton raises his hands in a wide gesture. "Okay, that's a low blow but fair point. But you weren't even the tiniest bit surprised to see someone in your kitchen at fuck o'clock in the morning.What does that say about you? Are you ever surprised by anything, Coulson? Anything?"

Coulson slowly turns, finally facing Barton. His legs are swinging wildly, heavy black boots hitting the wooden cupboards carelessly. He seems quite content, even though his right arm is bleeding. Coulson knows that because he sees blood soaking through his very own kitchen towel, which has somehow ended up wrapped around Barton's arm. He takes a very deep breath to keep his calm.

"You could hardly do anything to surprise me," he says and adds, just as Barton is opening his mouth, "And no, that is not an invitation for you to try."

Barton snorts loudly and hunches his back. "C'mon, like you don't know me."

Coulson props his hip against the counter, taking another long sip of his coffee.

"Of course you drink your coffee black," Barton mutters. "Is that why you're always so bitter? Is denying yourself any pleasures in life the reason why you stay so calm?"

Coulson doesn't humor him with an answer. "You're cleaning that," he looks pointedly at the splatters of blood all over the counter. Barton doesn't even have the decency to at least look sheepish. He shrugs and immediately winces, clutching his shoulder.

"Seriously Coulson, are you a robot? Stark's least successful attempt at an AI capable of imitating human behavior?"

"Barton," Coulson says. He puts a quiet threat into those two syllables, because for someone who's lost about half of their blood on the kitchen counter, Barton talks way too much. This tone always has an effect on Barton - his mouth takes an unhappy turn and he rolls his eyes.

"Are you even gonna ask why I'm here?" Barton cocks his head to the right.

"No," Phil answers and goes to take a shower.

He's pretty sure he hears a continuous string of swearing through the shower water, but when he turns the shower off and dries himself, there's just silence. He puts on his suit and heads towards the kitchen once more, prepared for anything.

The kitchen is empty. The counters are wiped haphazardly, streaks of blood drying in the pale morning light. That and the missing kitchen towel are the only thing assuring Coulson this was not just a very strange dream.

He cleans the blood. It makes him late for work.

-

Three weeks later, Barton is in his apartment again. 

Coulson's had a very unpleasant day consisting of dealing with terrorist who managed to get hold of some alien tech and the last thing he wants to see is Barton sitting on the ground of his living room, surrounded by various weapons.

"Care to explain?"

"Mm," Barton murmurs absentmindedly. He's frowning at something in his hands. Coulson can only assume it's a part of one of Barton's bows. He's not about to ask for details.

Then Barton twists the part in his fingers and when it clicks, he lets out a relieved sigh.He looks up at Coulson and his concentrated face breaks into a grin that leaves Coulson equally annoyed and confused.

"Hey Coulson," Barton says, his voice cheery but oddly quiet, "how're you doing?"

"Seriously?" Coulson folds his hands on his chest.

"Um, yeah?" Barton says as reaches for the rest of the bow, deftly assembling the pieces together. And Coulson must be incredibly tired because instead of ignoring Barton, he says, "None of your business, Legolas."

It's worth it, just for the way Barton's jaw drops at the words. Even if Coulson doesn't understand his own behavior anymore.

"Oh. My. God. Did you just actually say that? I'd bet all my money that even Thor would call me Legolas before you did. Damn! Wait, did you get hit in the head or something? Cause I think scrambled brain is the most logical explanation here. How many fingers do you see?" Barton waves a hand towards him.

Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting an upcoming headache. He probably has an actual concussion from the fighting but that is certainly nothing Barton needs to poke his nose into. 

"Do you ever shut up, Barton? Just keep quiet and play with your bow or whatever it is and be glad I'm not kicking you out."

Barton gasps, eyes widening. "That's not just 'a bow or whatever'!" he exclaims, completely ignoring the first part of Coulson's sentence. "That's....that's my most precious baby! I'd explain why she's so precious and unique but you know what they say about pearls and swine..." Clint grins.

Coulson scoffs.

"Anyway, there's some leftover pizza," Barton waves towards the table. And if Coulson were a different man, he might have jumped on Barton right there and then. But he's not so he nods curtly and grabs the pizza box.

-

October clouds hang heavy in the sky and Coulson can already see the first raindrops splatter on the sidewalk as he leaves SHIELD. By the time he gets home, the rain is pouring down like a waterfall.

He doesn't expect to find Barton sitting before his front door in a puddle of rainwater but that's exactly what he sees. It makes him slightly suspicious because he's sure Barton knows at least three ways to get into his house, none of which involve a key.

Clint doesn't move as Coulson reaches over him to unlock the door.

"If you're just going to sit there, you could have chosen a different doorstep," Coulson pokes Clint with his shoe. 

Clint gets up in one swift motion and steps inside before Coulson.

"Don't you have your own house?" Coulson wonders, even though he knows the answer. Clint turns to look at him and Coulson is almost taken aback by how wide and unsure his eyes look. Coulson doesn't press it further. Instead, he says, in his most reproachful and stern voice, "You're dripping water everywhere." Clint just shrugs.

Coulson rummages through his clothes until he finds a pair of sweatpants and a plain SHIELD-issued T-shirt. Clint is still standing in the same spot when he returns into the living room. When Coulson hands him the clothes, Clint starts undressing immediately. 

Coulson chokes out, "Bathroom's that way," but he still sees Clint's naked torso for far longer than he'd prefer.

But as the bathroom door shuts and Coulson hears the shower starting, he can't get the image of the thin fresh scar on Clint's right arm out of his head.

-

Clint takes that rainy night as an open invite to crash on Coulson's couch anytime he wants.

The clock on Coulson's night table reads 3:07 when he wakes up to a string of muffled curses from the living room. For a few moments, he debates with himself, and against his better judgement, ends up walking into the living room, bare feet tapping on the wooden floor.

How Clint manages to be fast asleep by the time Coulson enters the room is beyond him. Coulson shakes his head and goes to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. He wants to go right back to bed, but somehow he finds himself walking slowly towards the couch.

The way Clint sleeps looks at least very uncomfortable, if not downright painful. Coulson would have guessed (if somebody asked him, that is, because he surprisingly doesn't spend his free time pondering the sleeping positions of other people) that Clint would be sprawled across the whole couch, limbs hanging from the edge and snoring lightly. Instead, he sees Clint curled up into one of the corners of the couch, arms and legs tucked close to his body, taking up as little space as possible. If he folded himself even more, he'd probably turn into an origami crane. The position seems tense, but Clint's breathing is soft and calm.

Clint is shirtless and Coulson really should listen to both his instincts and his common sense and just leave Clint alone, go to bed and forget he's even here. But what Coulson does is instead is take a step closer and lets his eyes follow the tense curve of Clint's spine.

Clint's body is a reminder of the fact that no matter how often he fights with people with superpowers, he is still just a human being. Coulson counts at least three scars from gunshot wounds, one of them just barely an inch away from where Clint's heart is. An array of scars of different shapes and sizes is scattered across his whole torso, some looking barely healed. Then there's a bandage over Clint's elbow, so white it's almost glowing in the dim light coming from the kitchen. And an immense dark bruise on Clint's lower back, inviting Coulson to stretch his hand across it to see if he can cover it whole.

Coulson stands there for what seems like eternity, an empty glass in his hand and a storm of confusing thoughts in his head.

He pointedly doesn't check the clock when he returns to his bed.

-

It's snowing, for the first time this year. Coulson knows that because Clint let out a ridiculous sound of excitement just a few moments ago.

Coulson does his best to ignore him and just finish making his tea, but it's quite difficult when there's a grown man sitting on his window sill, almost jumping with excitement.

"Come watch," Clint says, far more quiet than his previous exclamations and Coulson just does. Clint ends up snatching his half drunk tea and when Coulson glances at him, he sees him grinning into the cup.

In the morning the snow is melted and Clint is gone, but there's an empty tea cup on the window sill.

-

It's rare for them to land a mission together unless it's something huge. Something that needs the cooperation of several different layers of SHIELD.

But big missions mean big risks and the current one in Bangladesh turns into a total failure in a matter of minutes. Seven agents dead, two missing and countless injured. Coulson stays awake for three days, minimizing the damage done until he can't stand on his legs anymore.

When everything is more or less secured, Coulson and his team spend five weeks looking for the missing agents. They find one half dead, strapped to the floor inside of an empty underground bunker, rats gnawing on her fingers. 

They never find Clint.

-

Almost four months pass and SHIELD puts a stop to the active searching, redirecting its resources elsewhere . Coulson doesn't stop looking for any information, but every single hint turns out to be a dead end and as the information becomes more and more scarce, the trace turns cold.

Coulson takes a few days off and spends a week emptying the contents of his liquor cabinet.

-

Six months after Clint's disappearance, he's standing in the middle of Coulson's kitchen, bruised and skinny but very much alive.

"You didn't even try to find me," he says, his voice low and raspy. There is no accusation in it.

And Coulson's head is about to burst and his chest feels too tight, but he does his best to stay calm and condense the six months into just a few minutes of talking. Clint listens carefully, his fingers twitching nervously as Coulson describes, in painful detail, how he lost his trace. 

When Coulson finishes, Clint nods, his eyes not meeting Coulson's. He takes a deep breath and says, "I'm going to sleep."

Coulson watches fron the kitchen as Clint shrugs off his shirt and curls up on the couch. After a few minutes, the tension leaves his body and his breathing steadies into a slow rhythm.

Coulson doesn't sleep that night.

-

The anger radiates off Clint in waves. Coulson knows the reason, knows that, after a week of sleeping on Coulson's couch and devouring everything in his fridge, Clint went to SHIELD.

Coulson doesn't ask, because he already knows Clint's sudden appearance turned SHIELD completely upside down. (He also knows that Clint quite literally threw a hard drive, filled with evidence and secret documents SHIELD didn't even know existed, into the office of the agent that lead the Bangladesh mission and hit him straight in the face. Coulson also knows it was only thanks to Barton's good will that the agent only needed four stitches. Because anything Clint can throw, he can kill with.)

Clint paces around the kitchen, restless and muttering something under his breath in a language that Coulson doesn't understand. 

Clint stops suddenly, hand slamming on the table. "I've had enough of SHIELD and their goddamn bullshit rules and superiority complexes. Just a bunch of suits sitting on their asses while people like me do the dirty work and get killed and captured. No, I've had fucking enough! They want war? They'll have it," he hisses.

Coulson should probably keep silent, but instead he remarks,"I would advise against that. They-"

Clint interrupts loudly. "They? Who are you kidding Coulson, there's no fucking they. You're SHIELD too!" His voice gets louder with every word.

And Coulson knows what Clint is saying, knows he should just allow him to let out the steam, but he suddenly feels the urge to make Clint understand.

"I don't-" is as far as he gets before he's interrupted again.

"Shut the FUCK UP. You're just one of SHIELD's minions. Those fuckers say 'jump' and you ask how high. They tell you I'm dead and you just smile and nod and let me rot in some godforsaken cave on the other side of the world!" Clint is screaming now, pointing his finger at Coulson.

"You're right. I did not spend months looking for you, even when SHIELD gave it up and told me not to continue. I did not spends months following even the most insignificant clues to try and find you," Coulson sneers at Clint who is suddenly standing way too close to him.

"Oh you did? That's touching! What did you do? Google my name or some other useless shit? I'm sorry, none of what the Perfect Agent Coulson did helped me get out of that shithole."

"Then maybe I shouldn't have even tried," Coulson says and regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth.

Clint seems frozen for a second. Then he slams his fist into Coulson's face.

Coulson sees white for a second and then another punch sends him stumbling backwards. He grabs Clint's hand and twists it away. Clint kicks him in the knee and punches him in the stomach with his free hand. Coulson tries to fight defensively, but when Clint shows no intention of stopping, he twists them around until he has Clint in a chokehold.

"Fuck you Coulson," Clint spits out and throws himself backwards, sending them both to the ground.

Coulson doesn't know how long they fight. They're both bleeding by the time their movements get slow and their breathing becomes strained. Clint has Coulson pinned to the floor, knees on his hips and one hand on his chest. With the other one, he punches Coulson straight in the face once, twice, three times before he lets his hand fall and leans back, kneeling above Coulson.

Clint's lip is split and his brow is bleeding; Coulson feels the blood dripping onto his own shirt, soaking into the fabric. His whole body rises and falls with labored breaths and the hands on Coulson's chest are shaking. 

Coulson wants to kiss him.

Instead, he spits out the blood in his mouth and says, "Get out."

And Clint does.

-

Another half a year passes and even though now Coulson knows Clint is alive, it does not stop his mind from racing in the most worrying directions. He pushes himself to work more and more every day. It doesn't help at all but Coulson prefers to pretend it does.

-

The power goes out because of a huge thunderstorm and after half an hour of sitting in the quickly disappearing daylight, Coulson gets up to look for some candles even though he's almost certain he doesn't have any.

There is a knock on the door right at that moment; three quick taps and then silence. When he cracks the door open, he's met with the tired eyes of Clint Barton.

He wants to slam the door shut in his face, but instead, he finds himself opening it wider and letting Clint in.

"I'm sorry," is all Clint says hours later, his face softly illuminated by a single candle that Coulson somehow managed to find in one of the kitchen drawers.

-

Two weeks later, Clint shows up with a duffel bag full of weapons and a dislocated shoulder.

"I mean," he says as he drops the bag on the ground, "I can set it myself, have done it a few times, but it's far more fun when you can scream motherfucker at someone else doing it," Clint gestures wildly with his good hand. His cheerfulness doesn't match the arm that's hanging oddly at his side and Coulson almost wants to dislocate his other shoulder too because the man apparently lacks the ability to learn a lesson.

Without a warning, he takes hold of Clint's arm and yanks it into place. True to his words, Clint shouts "Motherfucker!" at Coulson and pushes him away.

Coulson ignores the protests and pokes at Clint's shoulder, eliciting a groan of pain.

"Now you're just overreacting," Coulson murmurs as he checks the shoulder more carefully. The only reply he gets is an indignant huff.

The shoulder is starting to turn dark purple but there's not a whole lot Coulson can do about that. He's just about to step back when he looks up and finds Clint staring at him intently.  
Coulson starts to speak but when Clint's gaze drops to his mouth, his mind goes perfectly blank.

Suddenly he's pushing Clint back until his back hits the wall and then, because it all suddenly makes sense, he kisses him.

Clint replies with a sigh and then his hands are all over Coulson's body, tracing warm patterns on his skin.

When Coulson presses a leg between Clint's thighs, Clint throws his head back and makes the most wonderful sound Coulson has ever heard. He keeps thinking that for a few short minutes before they manage to get on the couch and there, Clint wraps his legs around him and moans and sighs, every sound more captivating than the last. Coulson wants to tell him as much, but he's far too gone to form any coherent sentences, so he just kisses him and hopes Clint will understand. It probably works because Clint keeps making those noises, his mouth just barely brushing Coulson's ear.

They stay there for a long time, legs tangled and a soft silence between them.

Coulson is right on the edge of sleep when Clint gets up, brushes his fingers lightly along Coulson's jaw and says, "Gotta go."

Coulson opens his eyes to see Clint standing over him. None of them speak as Clint throws the duffel bag over his good shoulder and walks out of the door, turning back to look at Coulson with wide eyes before disappearing for several months.

-

It's 5:26 when Coulson walks into the kitchen to make his morning coffee and sees Clint Barton perched on his counter, bleeding everywhere and grinning brightly.

Coulson rolls his eyes and takes out two cups from the cupboard.


End file.
